


Red Light, Green Light

by mardia



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Erik Killmonger Lives, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: “Cousin,” Prince T’Challa says, the sincerity radiating off him like sunlight, as Erik stares in disbelief. “Welcome home. I’m glad that you have been found at last.”He’s practically disoriented, that’s the only excuse Erik has got for letting himself slip and say, still staring at T’Challa, “I go by Erik, actually.”





	Red Light, Green Light

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to angelsaves and kmousie for looking over this fic. Title comes from the Black Panther soundtrack.

The day before Erik is set to graduate from Annapolis, he sees his old Uncle James for the first time in years. 

He’s alone in his usual booth at the dingy diner he goes to when he’s sick of ramen noodles, debating if he’s going to get another coffee, and Erik looks up and there’s his Uncle James right there in front of him. 

Erik’s hand goes into a fist underneath the table, his heart pounding, but when he speaks he sounds almost normal. “Uncle James?”

James steps forward--he’s gained some weight and his beard is starting to go gray. He looks old now. He got to grow old, and Erik’s father is dead. 

As James approaches his booth, Erik tries and fails to keep his breathing steady. 

“Look at you,” James says. His eyes are wet, but he’s smiling a little. “Look at how you’ve grown.”

“Kids do that,” Erik replies. “Especially when you haven’t seen them in a decade.”

James carefully sits down opposite Erik in the booth, folding his hands together on the table. “I...have waited a long time to see you again,” he says, and his voice is more accented now, more like how Erik’s dad sounded when it was just the two of them alone. 

He sounds _Wakandan_ , and Erik clenches his fist even harder. “Yeah?” he asks. “You wanna tell me where you’ve been all this time, man? Or maybe we can talk about how you disappeared the same night that my father was murdered?”

James swallows, but he doesn’t look away from Erik’s face. “Yes, we need to talk about that.”

“I’m all ears,” Erik promises, staring him down. 

And then James opens his mouth and starts spinning Erik a great big pile of bullshit. 

Oh, it sounds good. James--or Zuri, as he’s apparently called--makes sure to sell it, talking about the assassin that came and killed Erik’s dad, who was a secret prince of Wakanda. How James had tried to track down the suspected killer, an arms dealer named Ulysses Klaue. How Erik is royalty himself. Lies and truth all spun together, so closely that Erik can’t even take it apart after a while. 

And yet, when Zuri says heavily, “I loved your father like a brother. And I owed you better than what you were given,” Erik flinches, a tear escaping down his cheek despite himself. 

He wipes it away, quick, and keeps his voice hard as he says, “Sounds nice, man, but what does that do for me now? Not a damn thing.”

“I know,” Zuri says. “It’s been too long, and I’m an old man now, with too little time left.”

Erik sits back. “What, you sick?”

“Yes,” Zuri says simply, not playing it for pity. “I have a year left, maybe two. But before I go, I want to pay my debts--to you and to your father.”

Erik swallows, a rushing sound growing in his ears, anticipation rising up. “How the hell you going to do that?” he asks, hoarse. “Huh?”

“I’m going to bring you home,” Zuri says, and it’s the first thing he’s said that Erik believes completely. 

*

The second Erik takes his first step on the soil of Wakanda, he knows he’s finally home.

He can’t stop staring around him as Zuri leads him through the capital city--gawking at the buildings, the tech, the people--he knows he’s got his mouth open like a damn fool, but he doesn’t even care because he’s finally here. All those years of dreaming, all his plans, and finally--

Zuri’s hand claps onto Erik’s shoulder, and Erik stops himself from shaking it off. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? I’ve traveled so much of the world, and yet nothing compares to home.”

Erick thinks of that old apartment in Oakland, the milk crate he and his friends used for a basketball hoop, the classrooms crammed full of too many students and too few supplies. He remembers the series of crappy foster homes he had to live in, watching the one decent foster parent he had be shamed by a cashier for using food stamps, the friends he lost to prison or drugs or just the unending grind of poverty. 

“No,” Erik says. “Nothing compares.”

*

After that rapid tour of the city, Zuri finally takes Erik up to the palace to meet his newfound family. 

Yeah, this is going to go just great. 

Erik keeps his chin up and his face composed as they’re announced. He makes sure to walk in with the bearing and posture of the Annapolis graduate he almost was--but the second they walk into the audience room it doesn’t matter, because there they all are. The royal family of Wakanda-- _his_ family. 

“My nephew,” King T’Chaka says, rising up from his throne. “Welcome.”

It takes everything Erik has, looking at this man, not to immediately demand to know what _really_ happened to his father. But instead, bile rising up in his throat, he bows his head. 

“Thank you,” he says, and when the words stick in his throat, he knows everyone here will just take it as him being overwhelmed by emotion, by the magnitude of the moment. 

He takes a breath to steady himself as T’Chaka approaches, resting his hands on Erik’s shoulders. “N’Jadaka, son of my brother N’Jobu, I recognize you as my blood and as a prince of Wakanda. We welcome you.”

Despite himself, despite everything, Erik can feel himself shaking a little--his entire life has been building up to this moment, standing in Wakanda, taking his rightful place as his father’s son. 

He looks into T’Chaka’s eyes, so similar to his father’s, and says, honestly, “I’ve been dreaming of this my whole life.”

T’Chaka smiles at him, and Erik can see how it doesn’t quite touch his eyes, and that’s before T’Chaka gives a sideways glance to Zuri. 

Yeah. There’s more going on here than what he was told. 

“Come, let me introduce you,” T’Chaka says, turning to gesture towards his family, standing on either side of his empty throne. 

Queen Ramonda gives Erik a gracious, polished smile as T’Chaka introduces her as his “beloved wife”, holding a little girl at her side that she introduces as her daughter Shuri, but Erik’s gaze slides over to the young man stepping down from the dais, dressed in formal robes, his handsome, solemn face slowly starting to light up with a smile. A _real_ smile, genuine and friendly and open.

The prince steps forward, that smile lighting up his entire face, his eyes, and reaches out and clasps Erik’s hand in his own, his grip solid and warm. 

“Cousin,” Prince T’Challa says, the sincerity radiating off him like sunlight, as Erik stares in disbelief. “Welcome home. I’m glad that you have been found at last.”

He’s practically disoriented, that’s the only excuse Erik has got for letting himself slip and say, still staring at T’Challa, “I go by Erik, actually.”

He can just about _hear_ the sideways glances he’s getting for that, but T’Challa doesn’t blink, he just nods in acceptance. “Erik. You are welcome here--by whatever name you choose,” he stresses, and the look on T’Challa’s face makes it clear he’s expecting his words to be spread well outside these walls.

Erik’s heart is hammering in his chest, because he can use this. Erik can use _him_ , this sincere, seemingly naive royal cousin, who is so eager to make Erik feel at home. 

So Erik lets the sincerity bleed into his own voice as he looks his cousin right in the eyes and says, “Thank you, your Highness.”

T’Challa’s mouth curves up. “T’Challa, please.”

Erik obediently nods, and in the tiny corner of his brain that’s not making sure he doesn’t seem threatening or obnoxious or too American to fit in, he thinks smugly, _Yeah. I got you._

*

Erik’s first few weeks in Wakanda are exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure. 

Exhausting, because he’s trying to cram a lifetime--actually, millenia--of knowledge and culture into his head as quickly as he can, and the _science_ , fuck. Erik’s spent most of his life being the smartest guy in the room, and now he’s having to play catch-up. It’s insane. 

And that doesn’t even touch on what it’s like trying to find his place here. To go from being an Oakland kid who made good to being the long-lost son of a dead prince, royalty--and still, in the end, being the outsider with an American accent, still too different, too _foreign_ to fit in. 

But still...he’s _here_. He’s in his father’s homeland, _his_ homeland, right there on the verge of finding out who he is meant to be and what really happened to his father on that night in Oakland. 

Erik hasn’t missed the way that his uncle looks at him. Oh sure, on the surface T’Chaka is gracious and kind, eager to see his long-lost nephew find his place in Wakanda. But Erik sees him--he sees the way that T’Chaka watches him, the shadow of guilt in his eyes, the wariness. 

Is it guilt just because Erik’s here and his father is dead? Because T’Chaka was the one who sent Erik’s dad out on that mission that led to him dying alone and unprotected? Or is there more behind it, more than what he’s said?

But every time Erik feels that anger rising up to the surface, the urge to set everything on fire and watch it burn just so long as he gets the truth--he thinks of the books in his room, the language he’s learning, that glorious, shining city right outside these walls, and he bites his tongue, and he swallows down his anger, and he waits. 

He’s been waiting his entire life for this. He can wait longer.

*

Erik’s deep into a review of the latest engineering reports just released by the science academy, music blasting in his ears, so when he feels someone touch his shoulder, he drops his guard and grabs that hand in a bruising grip, heart pounding as he moves into a fighting stance. 

But no, it’s just T’Challa, eyebrows raised and deliberately holding himself still so he doesn’t seem like a threat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says in his soft voice. “I called your name, but you didn’t hear.”

Erik removes an earbud from his ear, his heartbeat only finally starting to slow down. “Yeah, I was listening to music. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you had some time free,” T’Challa says politely. “I have some prototypes that need testing, and I could use some help.”

“Sure thing,” Erik says cautiously, and T’Challa smiles quietly at him and walks away, confident that Erik will follow. 

And sure enough, not five minutes later Erik is in the lab, gaping in shock and saying, “You have _hoverbikes_?”

“We’re working on it, yes,” T’Challa says, with that curving smile of his. 

Erik’s brain goes offline, and once again he finds himself saying what he thinks rather than checking himself. “What the fuck, _how_.” And then he catches himself, but too late, and says, “What I mean is--”

But T’Challa is chuckling, and placing a warm hand on Erik’s shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry, I like hearing what you think. It’s refreshing.”

Huh. “Good to know,” Erik says, and he doesn’t miss the quick little glance T’Challa gives him out of the corner of his eye. 

Testing it out, Erik cocks an eyebrow at him and says, “So I’m really hoping when you said you wanted to test these prototypes, you meant we’re gonna be taking them for a ride.”

T’Challa scoffs. “Of course, what do you take me for?” He grins at Erik then, and Erik lets himself relax a little and grins back. 

*

That afternoon is honestly one of the best Erik’s had in Wakanda. They race through the countryside at speeds Erik didn’t think were possible, on tech he’d never dreamed of, and as the winds buffet his body he lets out a whoop of joy, and T’Challa answers with one that’s just as loud. 

They push the bikes as hard as they can go, racing up a mountain trail and stopping only at a plateau. T’Challa’s bike comes to a stop, and Erik stops his too, climbing off his bike as he takes off his helmet. 

His breath catches as he sees the view, all of Wakanda laid out for them below as the sun sets, the sky lit up in pink and gold, and Erik can’t speak looking at it. 

“It’s one of my favorite views of the city,” T’Challa says, standing next to him. “But almost every view is, I find.”

“My pops--” Erik bites his lip and says, more carefully, “I mean, my father used to tell me stories about Wakanda. Said it was the most beautiful place he’d ever seen.” He laughs a little. “He wasn’t wrong.”

_Baba, tell me a story about home._

He looks at T’Challa and realizes that it’s the first time he’s been alone with his cousin, no Dora Milaje hovering nearby, no advisors or family members, just the two of them alone together. T’Challa looks back at him like he knows what Erik’s thinking, his gaze steady and calm. 

Erik asks, slowly, “So why’d you really bring me out here?”

T’Challa tilts his head, and then gracefully settles himself in the grass, crossing his legs. He should look a little ridiculous doing it, this prince sitting in the grass like they’re out for a picnic or some shit, but he looks as composed and dignified as always. Never mind the way the sunset gilds the planes of his face, making him look like a painting brought to life. It’s not relevant, and Erik’s determined to ignore it.

“I thought we could take some time to talk, get to know each other better. You’ve kept to yourself these past few weeks.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot to take in,” Erik says, gesturing out at the city below. “I’m just trying to find my footing, you know? Got a lot to catch up on.”

T’Challa nods, his face neutral, and Erik feels a burst of anger at that, at seeing him look so fucking composed, like nothing Erik can say will touch him, will even brush that comfortable, sheltered life--

And then T’Challa’s mouth twists just a little, and he says, “I am...unsure of how to approach you, if I’m being honest.”

Erik’s eyebrows go up. “You?”

“You’re guarded,” T’Challa says. “It’s perfectly understandable, but you have a wall between you and the rest of the world. You like to keep to yourself. People have noticed that--as have I.”

“You don’t know nothing about me, man,” Erik says immediately, bristling. 

T’Challa lifts his head up a little higher, and the quiet confidence in that gesture sets Erik’s teeth on edge. 

So for once in this place, he comes out with the honest truth. “You’ve been sheltered and protected your entire life,” Erik says. “I haven’t. You really surprised I don’t know how the fuck to talk to you? Let’s not even mention the whole crown prince thing.”

T’Challa’s mouth does that twisty smile again. “Fair enough, I will not mention...the whole crown prince thing,” he says, as dry as the goddamn desert. But just as Erik’s gearing up to demand if he’s for real right now, T’Challa adds, more seriously, “But you make a good point. The truth is…” He shakes his head. “The truth is that I don’t think anyone quite knows what to do with you.”

“Wow,” Erik says, flat. “That’s comforting.”

T’Challa grimaces, realizing how that sounds--it’s the first time Erik’s seen him look even a little bit thrown, honestly. “It is not about you, just...do you know, your father was my favorite uncle? He was so...funny and kind. And then to find out he had an entire life in America, a family, a son, that he died in such an awful way, and that he wasn’t even buried properly…”

There’s real sorrow in T’Challa’s face, and Erik’s stomach is twisting into knots. 

But then T’Challa lifts his head up, and he says, with that painful sincerity that Erik has not a single fucking clue what to do with, “You are a surprise to us all, that’s true. But you _are_ welcome. This is your home, and you have a place here. Nothing about who you are--American, new to our ways--nothing changes that you are still Wakandan.”

He means it. Erik doesn’t know what to do with that, but he means it. 

Erik looks away, thinking furiously, refusing to acknowledge the twist in his stomach or how he can feel T’Challa watching him now. At last he looks over at the hoverbikes and says, going for the easy joke to lighten the mood, “Hey man, you keep letting me ride that bike, I’ll believe anything you tell me.”

When he finally looks over at T’Challa’s face, he’s got a rueful smile now. “I’ll have to see what I can do,” he says, and starts moving to get to his feet. 

Without thinking, Erik holds out a hand to help him up, and T’Challa pauses for only a moment, then grins and takes Erik’s hand as he gets up, his slim fingers briefly curling around Erik’s wrist before letting go. 

*

Erik finds himself settling into a groove after that day. Things start clicking for him on every level, the language fitting more easily in his mouth, the corridors of the palace less of a maze. Even his interactions with his other family members get easier, Shuri not being as shy as usual, sometimes imperiously demanding that he lift her up on top of a cabinet or a lab table so she can take a look at her brother’s newest prototype. 

Queen Ramonda relaxes around him too, once Erik starts making a real effort and stops treating her like a distant figurehead. It turns out that half of Wakanda’s recent medical breakthroughs are her work, and once Erik brings himself to start asking her questions, it turns out they can spend an entire dinner discussing Wakanda’s history of fine-tuning immunotherapy to address cancerous growths. 

One night Erik even forgets himself far enough to go, “Goddamn, that’s amazing,” as Ramonda’s walking him through their newest breakthrough. He’s about to apologize for his language, but she’s smiling at him, clearly amused. “Yes, I like to think so.” Her expression grows sadder, more inward, as she says softly, “Although Bast knows we can’t heal everything.”

“Someday, my love,” King T’Chaka says gently, and tiny Shuri pipes up, anxiously, “Can we really not heal Zuri, mama?”

“No, darling,” Ramonda says, her voice steadier now. “But we can make it easier for him now, hmm?”

Erik stares down at his plate and doesn’t say a word. He hasn’t seen much of Zuri since they arrived in Wakanda, but he’s heard enough to know that Zuri’s in need of constant care for his brain disorder, which is progressing rapidly. The memory loss and hallucinations are starting to set in now, and it’s like Ramonda said--Wakandan medicine is the most advanced in the world, but it can’t cure everything. 

“I should visit him,” Erik says quietly, thinking of that apartment in Oakland, how one of the few people who knows what really happened that night is on the verge of dying. “Would it be all right?”

Ramonda’s watching him kindly. “I’m sure it would be,” she says, and next to her T’Challa is nodding in agreement.

For the first time all night, Erik can’t quite meet her gaze. 

*

He does go to see Zuri the next day, and it doesn’t go well. 

One of the doctors explains, her voice low, that today is a bad day, that the hallucinations have taken hold. “Still, he responds well to voices,” she says, patting his shoulder in a way he realizes is meant to be comforting even though it comes as a jolt. 

The patient room they have for Zuri is objectively nice-looking, all warm golden light and gorgeous tapestries in soft earth tones, but it can’t hide the grayish cast to Zuri’s skin, how...diminished he already seems. 

Erik watches him from the doorway, his throat oddly tight. “Hey, Uncle James,” he says. 

Zuri turns his head at the sound of Erik’s voice, his face blank before twisting in recognition--and horror. “My prince,” he whispers, and then tears start to roll down his face. “My…” He shakes his head, unable to continue, and Erik glances around quickly before approaching the bed. 

“What happened in Oakland?” Erik whispers, his voice low and fierce. “Huh? Come on, man, just tell me. _Tell me._ ”

Zuri shudders and shakes his head, tears leaking from his tightly shut eyes. “My prince,” he says brokenly. “Forgive me.”

Erik’s shaking. “No,” he says, hoarsely, and turns and leaves the room. 

*

That night, Erik runs through the streets of Wakanda until his lungs feel like they’re about to give out and his legs are trembling. He finally stumbles to a stop near an acacia tree, bracing himself against the trunk as he gasps for breath, chest heaving. 

Once he’s no longer gasping for air, he calls out to the woman silently tailing him on a near-silent hoverbike, “Any reason you’re following me?”

She pulls the bike up to the tree, and Erik recognizes her--one of the Dora Milaje, although she’s out of uniform tonight. “It’s my duty to look after all members of the royal family,” she says smoothly, eyebrow cocked up. “Especially when they go sprinting out of the palace as though they’re being chased by monsters.”

Erik chokes on a bitter laugh. “Lady, you have no idea.”

He wipes the sweat off his forehead and finally lifts his head to find her still watching him. Dredging her name out of the back of his head, Erik says, “It’s Okoye, right?”

She nods regally. “You know, there are more productive ways of distracting yourself,” she says, and Erik lifts his eyebrows. 

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asks. 

“Come to the training rooms tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll show you,” Okoye says, getting back on her bike. She tilts her head and asks, with a show of concern, “Can you walk back to the palace?”

Erik side-eyes her for that. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to collapse on you.”

Okoye hums. “See that you don’t, please. My yearly evaluation is coming later this month, and that wouldn’t look good for me at all.”

*

The funny thing about this place, Erik thinks as he slowly sinks his aching body into the hot springs set up far below the palace, is that the bodyguards here are meant to protect the royal family from all possible dangers, and yet they’re completely fine with kicking his ass themselves. _Repeatedly_. It feels like every inch of his body’s bruised, fuck. 

As he floats in the water and lets the heat sink into his aching muscles, he tries to take stock of where he is.

He’s made it to Wakanda. He’s more settled here than he’d ever hoped to be; even T’Chaka’s wary looks have subsided for now. He has access to more power, more wealth and technology than he ever could’ve dreamed of even just a year ago...and he still feels as lost as he ever has. More, even. 

At least before Zuri found him, he had a _plan_. It was a cold and lonely life, he’s under no illusions about that, but fuck, he knew where he was going. MIT for grad school, then the SEALs, building himself up into someone who would find his homeland and justice for his father’s murder, who would right every wrong that had ever been done…

And now where is he? He’s made it to Wakanda, but he’s no further on his father’s murder than he was before--he’s got Zuri’s word on what happened, but that’s it. And what’s that worth? Soon Zuri will be dead...and Erik’s no fool, he’s not about to go accusing the king of Wakanda of covering up a crime without any goddamn proof. The only other lead he’s got is that dude Ulysses Klaue, who’s been in the wind for decades. 

“Fuck me,” Erik says, tilting his head up to the ceiling as he closes his eyes, only to hear T’Challa call out, his voice echoing oddly in the cavernous space, “Am I disturbing you, Erik?”

Erik opens his eyes and turns just in time to see T’Challa coming down the last few steps into the room, standing above him at the edge of the pool. “Nah,” Erik says, tilting his head up to look T’Challa in the face. “Just licking my wounds, that’s all.”

“Oh, are you not feeling well?” T’Challa asks innocently. 

Erik just glares. “How the hell you going to ask me that when you know damn well I just got my ass kicked from here to next week by the Dora Milaje?” T’Challa starts snickering, and he only laughs harder as Erik irritably flicks water at him. 

“Well, I was going to see if you were free this evening,” T’Challa muses, “but if you’re not feeling well--”

“Gimme a break, I’m sore from a workout, I’m not dying,” Erik grumbles. “What have you got in mind?”

“A friend of mine has returned from her travels abroad,” T’Challa says, and Erik’s ears prick up, both at the mention of a ‘friend’ and the talk of someone from Wakanda going abroad. T’Challa, either unaware of or ignoring Erik’s sudden interest, continues, “I’d like to introduce you to her. Will you come?”

“Yeah, okay,” Erik says. “Give me some time to get ready--this ain’t a big formal thing, right?”

“Not at all,” T’Challa assures him, and Erik sighs in relief before turning around and slowly--and painfully, Christ, his shoulders are still sore--pulling himself out of the water, sloshing everywhere. 

T’Challa politely steps back to give him some room, but some of the water splashes on his sandals anyway. Erik looks up to apologize and catches T’Challa already looking at him. _Really_ looking, his gaze dragging over Erik’s bare chest, following the beads of water trailing down his skin. 

Erik freezes, caught off guard--not just from T’Challa eyeing him up with that half-hidden appreciation but from his own response to it, that hot rush of desire, of craving something just beyond his reach. 

Erik’s not vain, but he knows this is the best shape he’s ever been in. And sure, it’s a nice ego boost, taking his body and molding it into the best version of itself, but having T’Challa, cool, unshakable T’Challa, look at him this way is bringing out every dark instinct Erik has, making him want to grab T’Challa by the arm, pin him to the nearest wall, press their bodies together and--

He wants it all, he wants to take _everything_ , and for just that one moment, the ferocity of his desire is the only thing he knows how to feel--the need to take what he wants before it gets taken from him. 

But then T’Challa looks away, shaking his head as if to snap himself out of it, and Erik has to stop himself from going, _No, come here, keep looking at me like that so I can do something about it._

“I’ll let you get ready,” T’Challa says, that gracious, polished smile fixed back on his face, and Erik sets his teeth and just nods, biting back everything he won’t let himself say out loud. 

*

Erik’s not quite sure what he expects when he goes out with T’Challa for the evening, but he finds himself surprised anyway--the bodyguards flanking them, sure. The private train car dropping them right off practically in front of the restaurant, okay. 

But it’s a trip, watching T’Challa out in public like this, following in his wake and seeing the respect mingled with open affection that he’s greeted with. It’s funny, because it’s not as if you can ever _forget_ T’Challa is first in line for the throne, but he’s able to somehow carry it in a way that makes you feel at ease, without ever demanding you do the impossible and try and forget who he is. 

Noblesse oblige, Erik thinks, and snorts at himself. 

The owner herself comes out to greet them, beaming as she personally escorts them to their private room, where there are dozens of the softest pillows to lounge on while they eat--Erik’s gotten used to sitting down on the floor for meals back at the palace, but it’s still throwing him to do it at a restaurant--and as they get closer, Erik sees W’Kabi already waiting for them, rising to his feet with a smile for T’Challa, like everyone else here. 

And next to W’Kabi is one of the most beautiful women Erik’s ever seen in his life. 

“Look who’s finally come home,” W’Kabi says, with a knowing grin at T’Challa, who is staring at this woman like...like the way Erik looks at T’Challa sometimes before he catches himself. 

“Nakia,” T’Challa breathes out, smiling at her broadly, a smile that Nakia’s matching now. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be home,” Nakia says, smiling fondly at T’Challa before her attention shifts to Erik. “Although I see much has changed since I left,” she adds. “Your Highness,” she says to Erik. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Likewise,” Erik says cautiously, not quite sure what to make of the open curiosity in her face. 

“Nakia,” T’Challa warns, the affectionate teasing clear in his voice. “At least let my cousin get some food in him before you start with your interrogations, eh?”

“At least buy me a drink first,” Erik jokes as they all settle down cross-legged on the cushions. 

Nakia laughingly mock-punches T’Challa in the arm. “Don’t let him fool you. Nobody will interrogate you tonight.”

“For now,” W’Kabi says, and he says it like a joke, but his gaze is a little narrowed, assessing. 

Erik keeps the smile on his face, but he makes sure to meet W’Kabi’s gaze dead-on. _Yeah, man, I see you. Trust in that._

But before the tension can start to build up any, Nakia takes over, so smoothly and sweetly that Erik almost doesn’t see her doing it. It starts with a joke about having to catch up on her own studies, and then she slips in a question about Erik’s since-discarded plans of going to MIT, and before Erik quite knows what he’s about, he’s been drawn out to the point where he’s talking about what it was like for him at Annapolis, the constant grind there. “Although trying to get in was a lot worse,” Erik tosses out casually, and Nakia asks how, and that’s how Erik ends up having to explain the fucked-up world of standardized tests, watching Nakia’s lovely face slowly morph into an expression of horror that she does her best to hide but mostly fails at.

Erik tries to reach for that bitterness again, that sour smug feeling he gets whenever someone from Wakanda lets their real feelings slip and show they think Erik literally grew up in a fucking hellhole and they’re surprised he turned out as normal as he did. 

“What an...interesting way of doing things,” Nakia says, trying the diplomatic route. 

Amused, Erik says, “It’s messed up, c’mon, you can say it.”

Nakia laughs, saying, “All right, I admit I don’t understand the system.”

“Don’t worry, nobody does,” Erik says dryly. “That goes for most institutions in the US, by the way.”

“So you have no illusions about your home country, I see,” W’Kabi says.

Erik bristles and doesn’t bother trying to hide it. “No, I have a pretty clear view on America’s problems, what with living there my whole life. What about you, man, you ever leave Wakanda before?”

“W’Kabi,” T’Challa murmurs mildly, but W’Kabi just keeps on pushing. 

“Why leave?” he asks, shrugging. “Everything I could want is here.”

Erik could play nice and leave it there. But he already knows he won’t. “You like this music in this place, right?” W’Kabi just looks at him sideways, and Erik smiles back, full of teeth. “You’ve been bobbing your head and tapping your fingers to the beat for the last five minutes, so it’s a fair assumption.”

W’Kabi just stares him down. “Your point?”

“My point,” Erik says, deliberately, “is that the band’s from South Africa. Over half the music they’ve played here tonight is from the African diaspora, and you’re sitting here grooving to it and preaching isolationism at the same time?”

“And on that note,” T’Challa cuts in, “I think I could use some fresh air, the room’s getting a little stuffy. W’Kabi, you should come with me, eh?” He slaps W’Kabi on the shoulders as he gracefully gets to his feet. W’Kabi follows him, although not without one last glower in Erik’s direction. 

Erik takes a sip of water and says to Nakia, “Sorry about killing the mood, I know this is supposed to be your welcome-home dinner.”

Nakia just waves it off. “W’Kabi was the one pushing it. But I am interested in hearing more about where you are from, if you’ll tell me?”

Erik eyes her up. “Why are you so interested?”

Nakia pauses before answering, but when she does, it’s with the same sort of sincerity Erik sees from T’Challa all the time. “Because even if I think nothing in the world compares to Wakanda, the world is wide, and I can be interested in many things.” She nudges his side, in a way that reads as friendly and yet not flirtatious. “So tell me, why did you pick the Naval Academy?”

“Seemed like the best option for what I was trying to accomplish,” Erik says, trying to shrug it off. Then he sees T’Challa and W’Kabi approaching, both of them carrying blue drinks that are literally glowing. 

He makes a point of clowning T’Challa over the drinks, thinking that the teasing will change the conversation--and remind that punk W’Kabi that one of them is part of the royal family, and it ain’t him. 

But it only partially works as a distraction. Yeah, W’Kabi backs off from trying to provoke Erik, but Nakia doesn’t, and she’s so skillful at drawing Erik out that eventually he’s right back to talking about the years he spent busting his ass for the grades that would lead him to a high GPA, to a high SAT score, that would lead to his local congressman taking a shot on him and agreeing to nominate him for a spot at the Academy. 

He wants to blame his sudden spurt of talkative honesty on Nakia’s charm and her beautiful face, and on the drinks T’Challa keeps ordering for their group, but he knows that the fault is really with him, in that desire to feel _seen_. To have someone here understand his struggle, to have them know everything he was willing to do just to have a _shot_ of coming here one day. 

And the more he talks to Nakia, the more aware he is of T’Challa’s attention, the moments where he can feel T’Challa watching him, listening to him. 

It sets off the embers of a fragile hope Erik’s been keeping half-buried in his chest, and before he can think better of it, he asks Nakia, “What about you? How’d you feel about your trip out to Paris?”

Nakia’s mouth twists. “It was interesting,” she says at last. “Parts of the city were beautiful, fascinating, even. And yet…”

It’s the first time Erik’s seen her search for words all evening. “You didn’t just stick to the parts of the city they keep picturesque for the tourists, huh,” he says.

“No,” Nakia says. “No, I didn’t." Her face clouds over, but whatever she saw in Paris is something she’s not willing to talk about yet. Erik sees the second she decides to put it all to one side, as she smiles brightly and says, “But now I am home, and very glad to be so.”

“Now, I will drink to that,” W’Kabi says, and leads them all in a round of toasts.

The mood mellows out after that, and by the time the check arrives, Erik’s feeling relaxed enough that he’s happy to jump right into the argument over who exactly is picking up the check tonight. 

“Enough,” T’Challa says, half-laughing even as he tries to glare them all down. “I am the prince, and I say--”

“There’s two princes here, man,” Erik says, grinning. “That line’s not gonna _work_ \--”

“Fine, the crown prince then,” T’Challa says, but he’s still laughing as he says it. “And what I say is that check is mine, and I forbid anyone to--”

“I’m sorry, you forbid?” Nakia says, mock-outraged, and W’Kabi bursts out laughing. 

But finally the check’s paid, and it’s not until Erik gets to his feet and feels the ground lurching beneath him that he remembers that he’s had more to drink than he’s realized, and that he’s out of practice.

“Whoa,” he says, bracing himself with a hand against the wall, and T’Challa’s right there in a second, reaching out to hold onto Erik’s free arm. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, and Erik looks at T’Challa’s gently curving mouth and promptly loses track of what he’d planned to say. 

“Yeah,” he says, a second later than he means to. “Yeah, man, it’s all good.”

He tries to snap himself out of it; the last fucking thing he needs now is to get sloppy in public and give away his--fascination with T’Challa. And yet, even as they’re making their way out of the restaurant, Erik still finds himself watching T’Challa, the broad shoulders, the sleek and easy way he moves through the crowd, fuck. 

His head’s still swimming once they get outside, through the goodbyes with W’Kabi, and then with Nakia, who embraces T’Challa before she gently clasps Erik’s shoulders, smiling up at him. “I’m glad to have met you,” she says. 

“Likewise,” Erik tells her, surprised to find that he means it. 

Once they’re safely in the train car, Erik leans back against the seats with a sigh of relief. “Can’t believe I’ve turned into a lightweight,” he grumbles, and he hears T’Challa chuckling. 

“I should’ve warned you, perhaps,” he says, and Erik cracks one eye open to glare at him. 

“Oh yeah, you think? Man, I’d better not see my ass in any Wakandan tabloids tomorrow morning.”

“Tabloids?” T’Challa repeats, eyebrow raised. “No. Maybe some gossip, but nothing serious.”

“Well, that’s something,” Erik says with a sigh, closing his eyes again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit here and try and sober the hell up.”

T’Challa just chuckles and leaves him to it. 

Of course, by the time they get to the palace, Erik’s still drunk enough that when he comes out of the train car onto the platform in front of the palace, he stumbles just a little over his own feet. “I’m cool,” he says quickly, but T’Challa still takes his arm in a firm grip, propping him up. 

Erik sways into it a little, and he can’t tell if it’s the liquor or the fact that he wants to. “I’m really not that drunk,” he tries, and T’Challa’s mouth quirks in a half-smile. 

“Of course not,” he says agreeably. “Let me ease my worries, though, and see you off to your quarters.”

Erik huffs, but he doesn’t shrug off T’Challa’s hand either. Honestly, the extra support is good, as that last drink is hitting Erik harder than he expected, so that when he finally gets to his quarters and sees his bed, he groans with relief and immediately collapses face-first onto it. 

“You’re not even going to take off your shoes?” T’Challa asks, incredulous. “Oh, you _are_ a lightweight.”

“Those drinks were spiked, dammit,” Erik grumbles, although his voice is muffled by his pillow.

He jerks a little when he feels a light touch on his ankle, and makes himself stay still while T’Challa carefully slips his sandals off. When his hand slips away, Erik tries to ignore how cold his skin feels. 

But he still hears T’Challa in the room, rummaging around, and Erik shifts just enough that he can see T’Challa grinding something with the mortar and pestle in Erik’s room--and then T’Challa turns around, mortar in hand, and says, “This is for you. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Erik looks at it a little dubiously, but he turns over and sits up in bed, taking the mortar from T’Challa’s hands and sipping cautiously at it. He gags but manages to swallow it all and finally puts the mortar down, still gagging on the bitter taste. “Fuck, man, that hangover cure better work,” he grumbles, wiping at his mouth before collapsing back onto his bed. 

“It will,” T’Challa says easily, but he doesn’t make a move to go. Erik cracks an eye open and looks over at him, curious. 

His breath catches in his throat when T’Challa gracefully perches on the edge of the bed, inches away from Erik’s body. 

“I know you avoided answering Nakia earlier,” T’Challa says, carefully, “but I would still like to know why you chose to attend the Naval Academy back in America.”

Erik shifts restlessly, looking away. “It’s not that interesting of a story, man.”

“I think,” T’Challa says, still in that gentle tone, “that perhaps it is.”

He hadn’t wanted to admit to it earlier, out in public, with Nakia’s sympathy and W’Kabi’s casual contempt staring him right in the face, but here, in the quiet of his own room with only T’Challa there to hear him--

So Erik opens his mouth and finds himself saying, “I thought if I could make myself impressive enough, worthy enough, one day I’d get to Wakanda and I’d be allowed to stay.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond at first, and then he says, low and fierce, “Your right to stay here is unquestioned--”

“Yeah, _you_ might not question it,” Erik says. “But not everybody here shares your point of view.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me, though, not as long as I’m here.”

T’Challa is quiet at that, for long enough that Erik can lie there and just...enjoy looking at him, his mouth, his sharp cheekbones. The shirt Erik’s still wearing has a deep v to its neckline, and for one second, he actually lets himself fantasize about T’Challa reaching out and touching him, those slim, elegant fingers trailing down his bare skin…

He drags himself out of that train of thought before it can go any further--before he can go any further--and realizes that while he’s been fantasizing about T’Challa touching him, T’Challa has been watching him, his gaze dark and unreadable.

Erik swallows. “You know this place isn’t perfect, right?” he says softly, because in his head--his drunken, loopy, fixated head--it suddenly becomes very important that T’Challa know this. 

“No place is perfect,” T’Challa says before hesitating and placing a hand carefully on Erik’s shoulder, the warmth from his touch sinking into Erik’s skin like a brand. “But yes, I am learning it now.”

“Good,” Erik says, some old bitterness rising up to the surface. “You should be.”

“Yes,” T’Challa says, not flinching. “I think I should.” His mouth quirks upwards, briefly, and he squeezes Erik’s shoulder before letting go. “You should get some rest, cousin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Erik says, his eyelids growing heavy as T’Challa dims the lights. “I’ll see you, man.”

*

Two days later, Erik’s in one of the side labs, being ruthlessly bossed around by a little kid. 

“No, _that_ one,” Shuri demands imperiously, trying for the fifth time to grab the tech out of Erik’s hand. 

“Nope,” Erik says, immediately pulling it out of her reach. Ignoring her pouting, he says, “I ain’t looking to get whooped by my auntie or the Dora Milaje because _you_ keep looking to electrocute yourself when my back’s turned. Nah.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Shuri says in a tone of disgust. “I know more than _you_ do. I’m not going to hurt myself.” She pauses and then adds, in a tone of finality, “Dummy.”

“Shuri,” Queen Ramonda says from behind them, “don’t be rude to your cousin.”

As Erik whirls around, Shuri says, “Sorry, Mama.” She peers up at Erik and mutters, rebellious, “But I still know more than you.”

This is what Erik’s life has come to--getting dunked on by a kid. Goddamn. 

The queen’s mouth twitches, but she says, “Give me a moment with Erik, hmm?”

Shuri gives Erik a sidelong look, as if to ask what he’s in trouble for, but scampers off quickly, probably to go and invent a spaceship or something. 

Once he’s alone with Ramonda, Erik holds himself still, refusing to fidget under her gaze. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t make him wait. “I have something to give to you. Something that...belongs to you.”

Erik blinks in surprise. Now that he’s really looking, he can see that for all of Ramonda’s composure, there’s tension lurking in the corners of her mouth, in the line of her jaw. 

So instead of asking what it is, Erik asks, “What’s wrong?”

Ramonda exhales, but rather than answer him, she opens up her hand--and right there, resting in her palm, is a ring Erik hasn’t seen in years. 

Erik stares down at his father’s ring and asks, hoarsely, “How did you get this?”

“It...was among Zuri’s things,” Ramonda says carefully, and Erik’s gaze darts back up to her face. “But it was your father’s ring, handed to him by his father, which means it belongs to you.”

Almost in a whisper, Erik says, “After he died, I looked and I looked for it, but it wasn’t there...was there a notebook?”

“A notebook?” Ramonda asks, her forehead creasing--not in guilt but in confusion. 

His stomach already sinking, Erik explains, “That hiding place where my dad kept his ring, he had a notebook full of his writings with it…” His voice trails off, because from the expression on her face, he can already tell what her answer is going to be. 

Ramonda shakes her head and says, Her voice full of compassion, “Erik...the ring was all I could find.”

Erik presses his lips together and doesn’t say a word, and yet when Ramonda puts the ring in his hand and then wraps her hands around his, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. 

“You should have had this sooner,” she tells him, meeting his gaze directly. “We should have found you sooner. Nothing I say to you now can change that--but I can give you this ring, and I can give you the truth.”

Erik feels himself shaking all over. “The truth, huh? You wanna give me the truth, then tell me what happened that night. Tell me who killed my dad.”

Ramonda’s eyes are steady on his face. “I know what you think, but it wasn’t Zuri,” she says. “But you’re not wrong to blame us. We should have done better by you...and done better for your father.”

The gentle admission gets to Erik in a way he didn’t expect, and Ramonda’s soft hands tighten around his as he fights back tears. 

“You are your father’s son,” she says, her voice quiet. “And you are a prince of Wakanda, and you are home. All of that is true.”

God help him, he wants to believe her. He wants to take it all, her compassion, her gentle hands on his, the truths she’s offering up--he wants to believe every goddamn word. He just doesn’t know _how_. 

Ramonda doesn’t press for more, just leaves him with one last squeeze of the hands, a sad smile trembling on her lips as she goes. 

*

The ring fits perfectly on his left hand. For weeks afterwards, Erik will get distracted by it when it catches the light, losing his train of thought when he sees that telltale gleam on his finger. 

*

When he first got to Wakanda, Erik promised himself the only way he’d leave the country was if they dragged him out, and he’d have to be unconscious or halfway to dead before he let them. 

But here he is now, walking through the open market and listening to Nakia talking about her next mission to reclaim some ancient Wakandan artifacts from some shady antiques dealer in Mexico City, and Erik finds himself asking, “So is this a one-person mission, or you think you could use some backup?”

Nakia’s eyebrows fly up her forehead, but that’s nothing compared to the startled look on T’Challa’s face. “Are you offering?” she asks. 

“Erik,” T’Challa starts, but Erik rolls right over him. 

“Yeah, I am,” Erik says. “Could use the opportunity to stretch my legs a little--if you think I’d be useful,” he adds quickly, and Nakia looks mollified--and like she’s thinking it over. 

T’Challa must see it too, as he says in a tone of surprise that is deeply unflattering so far as Erik’s concerned, “Are you really considering this?”

“I am actually capable of handling myself, you know,” Erik says, exasperated, and T’Challa turns an equally exasperated look his way. 

“No one is doubting your abilities,” he says, “but I do doubt the wisdom of letting a member of the royal family take part in a dangerous mission--”

“It doesn’t sound that dangerous,” Erik protests. “We go in, grab our stuff, maybe knock the guy around a little bit, and then we bounce. Where’s the danger in that?”

“Would you like me to make you a list?” T’Challa asks, folding his arms, and Nakia clears her throat. 

“Actually,” she says, “I think Erik’s idea has some merit.”

Erik would shoot a smug look T’Challa’s way, except Nakia and T’Challa are looking at each other and having a wordless conversation, and then T’Challa’s face goes through five different emotions that Erik can’t read before he says, “All right, then I’m coming with you.”

“I’m sorry, come again?” Erik asks in disbelief, and T’Challa just shrugs at him, back to his usual unflappable self. “What are you coming for?”

T’Challa just raises an eyebrow at him. “To keep you two out of trouble, what else?” he asks coolly. 

Erik tries to talk him out of it the entire time they’re heading back to the palace for dinner, pointing out that if the queen and king have any objections to Erik going off on some clandestine mission, that’s nothing compared to T’Challa going off looking for trouble. 

“Listen, man, I’m the spare here--not even that, because Shuri’s next in line after you. I’m the backup to the backup. Nobody gives a shit if my ass goes down in Mexico City--”

“I would,” T’Challa says firmly, turning to look Erik square in the face. “I would care, as would our family. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending that we think of you as disposable, please.”

Thrown, Erik stares at him and then says, “They still aren’t going to let you go.”

“You let me deal with that,” T’Challa says, serenely, and continues on walking, leaving a slightly shell-shocked Erik to continue following him. 

Erik plays it fair and keeps his mouth shut during dinner, letting T’Challa take the lead, even as he’s desperately curious to see how he’s is going to spin this, and whether it’s even going to work. 

Somehow, he’s still not prepared for T’Challa calmly laying out the parameters of Nakia’s mission to Mexico City, and then explaining that he and Erik would be going along as backup, along with several members of the Dora Milaje. “As purely a precaution, of course,” T’Challa assures his parents. 

Erik keeps his mouth stuffed with rice and waits for the hammer to come down. 

At first it looks like it will, as T’Chaka is frowning, and he says abruptly, “I don’t like this idea. Send two princes of Wakanda out beyond our borders to catch some criminal? It’s too risky.”

That’s exactly what Erik expected to hear--minus T’Chaka putting him on a level with his son in terms of importance--but the rest is what he expected. 

But Ramonda is looking at the display from her kimoyo beads, going over the mission specs, her mouth pursed. 

And because Erik’s watching, he doesn’t miss the quick glance she gives T’Challa, quick and assessing, before she turns back to the display, the faint light glowing against her face. 

“Who is this Renard?” Ramonda says, abrupt and contemptuous. “Nothing but a petty thief who stumbled upon a treasure too great for him to handle. Even one of our Dora Milaje would be overkill for a mission this simple.”

T’Chaka, thinking his wife is agreeing with him, sits back and says with relief, “There, you see--”

“So obviously we should send them,” Ramonda says, casually, like it’s nothing. 

Out of everyone there, T’Challa is the only one who doesn’t even look surprised by what she’s said. 

What follows is a goddamn master-class in manipulation. T’Challa would probably call it diplomacy or something, but Erik knows manipulation, and it’s fucking brilliant the way Ramonda just rides right on past all of T’Chaka’s objections until sending them out on this mission not only sounds reasonable enough, it sounds _practical_. 

As they’re all rising up to their feet after dinner, Erik takes the opening to lean into T’Challa’s personal space and mutter in his ear, “So when you said you were going to handle it--”

He can’t actually see T’Challa’s curving smile, but he can hear it in his voice as he says, amused, “I always find it’s wise to leave things to the experts.”

*

Okoye has been eyeing them all up during the flight out to Mexico City, in a way that makes it painfully clear what _she_ thinks of the wisdom of this plan, but at least she’s not openly calling them all idiots. 

“So this is basically a smash-and-grab, right?” Erik says as they’re going over the op once more. “We bust into the hotel room while Renard is busy schmoozing the buyer, steal back our stuff, and then bounce before anybody’s noticed?”

“Less smashing, more sneaking,” Nakia says with a quick smile. “Studying Renard’s usual pattern, he’ll waste time trying to cozy up to the buyer, Babinov. That will give us an opportunity to get upstairs--and steal back our stuff,” she finishes, with another smile. 

“We’ll need to be careful about the guard at the door,” Okoye warns as the black sand in front of them all shifts into a floor plan of the hotel, with a tiny figure standing in front of Renard’s door. 

“My real concern is whether Renard has split up the idols,” Nakia says. “Our intelligence says he has three statues of Bast in his possession, one small enough to slip into a suit jacket. It’s possible he could bring it with him to the hotel bar, to assure Babinov that he has them.”

“So if that happens, we’ll start smashing shit,” Erik says, shrugging. “Easy.”

T’Challa looks at Okoye and says, “I told you that you wanted me along to keep them in line,” while Okoye just rolls her eyes. 

*

It’s not that Erik is hoping for a giant brawl in the hotel bar, it’s more that when the opportunity comes for him to kick some ass, he’s not exactly disappointed about it. 

And in his defense, it’s not like he throws the first punch, either. It’s just that one of Babinov’s bodyguards spots Nakia, and once their cover is blown (and once Okoye makes sure to take down the hotel’s security cameras), there’s really no point in trying to be subtle about what they’re doing. 

So yeah. Erik’s pretty excited about smashing some heads in. 

It’s a fucking rush, too--so much of his time in Wakanda, he’s been on the back foot, constantly the student, constantly having to learn and keep walking a pace behind everyone else as he tries desperately to catch up, but this--this he _knows,_ he knows how to throw a punch, how to dodge a blow, how to see what his opponent’s about to do and keep three steps ahead the entire time. How to keep powering through when he does get hit, because there’s no way he’s going to lose this fight, no fucking way. 

And God, watching Okoye and Nakia lay these assholes out--watching _T’Challa_ , each move calculated just so, nothing wasted, beautiful and precise and deadly--Erik just laughs and goes back to work, smashing a bottle over the third bodyguard’s head and then turning back to the second goon and finishing him off with a roundhouse kick to his head. 

Erik stands over the fucker’s unconscious body, breathing hard, wiping blood off his mouth--and then he glances over and sees T’Challa staring at him, his eyes wide, stunned--and appreciative. 

Erik grins at him, the bitter taste of blood in his mouth and adrenaline singing in his veins. _Yeah, go ahead and look at me._

The moment stretches out like honey, everything moving at half-speed, and then Okoye grabs Erik’s arm, shaking it as she hisses in his ear, “What are you, concussed? We need to _move_ ,” and everything snaps back into focus, and he can hear the sirens coming, and they’ve got the statues and they need to get the fuck out of here.

So they run for it, leaving chaos in their wake as they make their getaway. 

“That was fucking beautiful,” Erik says later, as they’re launching the ship into the atmosphere. Nakia’s carefully inspecting the statues for damage--one of them dates back to the 17th century and is a lost masterpiece of one of Wakanda’s most famous artists--and Erik’s watching the first-person footage of the brawl that Okoye had been recording herself. “Goddamn, look at that shit. Okoye, you need to teach me how to do that thing with the spear.”

“Bloodthirsty, isn’t he?” Okoye mutters to T’Challa.

“Yes, but it’s useful when he’s on our side,” T’Challa says, and touches Erik’s arm. “Come here, you’re bleeding all over the ship.”

“What?” Erik asks, and then glances down at his torn-up knuckles. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” T’Challa says, sounding both exasperated and affectionate, and Erik looks at the planes of his back and gets up to follow him into the back of the ship, in a dim corner that doesn’t have a direct line of sight to where Okoye and Nakia are. 

“Let me see your hands,” T’Challa says quietly, and Erik pauses, and then brings out his hands, already starting to bruise and swell.

T’Challa tuts in disapproval and pulls out a tiny jar from a cabinet hidden in the ship’s paneling. “Here,” he says, gesturing for Erik to lean in closer and give T’Challa one of his injured hands.

Erik holds his hand out, and T’Challa quietly gets to work, bracing Erik’s hand on his knee while he starts applying the salve from the jar. Erik makes a deliberate effort to keep still, his gaze fixed on T’Challa’s bowed head. 

“Am I hurting you?” T’Challa asks in a low murmur. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Erik says distractedly. It does hurt, of course--his knuckles are torn up to shreds, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s had far worse and would put up with far worse to have T’Challa’s hands on him like this, to have those slim, elegant hands so carefully smoothing the slick, slightly fragrant salve over the bruises and cuts. 

As the salve starts to work and Erik’s torn skin starts knitting itself back together, his hand starts tingling, little electric sparks going off along his skin, offset by the steady warmth of T’Challa’s fingers on his hand.

T’Challa moves his attention to Erik’s other hand, quietly hissing as he looks at the damage. “Did you just start punching a concrete wall during the fight while my back was turned?”

“That guy’s head was hard enough to be concrete,” Erik admits. “Ugly enough, too.”

T’Challa glances up and smiles at that, and Erik watches as his expression changes, as he visibly hesitates, before gesturing at Erik’s face, at his blossoming black eye and busted lip. 

More hesitant than Erik’s ever seen him before, T’Challa asks, “You, your face, do you need--”

Something in Erik just snaps, and he goes for fucking broke. He lifts up his chin, challenging, and says, “Go ahead, then.”

T’Challa lets out a breath, his hand hovering in midair--and then he reaches out and starts applying the salve to the bruise under Erik’s eye. His fingers are delicate, _gentle_ , and it has Erik shivering, has him locking up every muscle tight as a drum so he doesn’t sway into T’Challa’s touch. 

If Erik really thought it was just him feeling like this, he’d back off, he would. But he knows--he knows the way that T’Challa is looking at him, the heavy-lidded looks, the way his breathing’s coming a little quicker, rougher now. How closely he’s leaning into Erik’s space, and how careful and thorough he is in tending Erik’s minor injuries. 

At last T’Challa’s finished seeing to Erik’s eye, and from this close, Erik can see the exact second that T’Challa’s gaze dips down to the cut on Erik’s mouth. 

Eirk doesn’t say a word. He just tilts his face up and waits, hoping, _wanting_ \--

That first touch of T’Challa’s thumb to Erik’s mouth is so light Erik almost thinks he’s imagining it, except for the look on T’Challa’s face. He’s already shaking a little bit, and then T’Challa’s thumb rubs over his mouth again, harder this time, and Erik feels it all, the sting of the cut and the salve, the pressure of T’Challa’s thumb on his mouth and the weight of T’Challa watching him with those dark, wide eyes, fuck fuck _fuck_ \--

And then, between one second and the next, that pressure’s gone, T’Challa has pulled his hand away, dropping his gaze as he clears his throat. “Ah, you should...just leave the salve there for at least another five minutes, let it sink in.”

Erik wants T’Challa’s hands on him again. No, he wants to put _his_ hands on T’Challa, wants to pull him in close and--

His hands are clenching into fists again, and then he deliberately lets them fall loose against his knees, breathing out. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, all right.”

His mouth is still tingling. 

*

It’s about an hour later when Okoye says, “We’ve crossed the border now; we should be at our destination shortly.”

Erik lifts up his head at that, baffled. “What border? We can’t possibly be back home yet.” And then he catches sight of T’Challa’s face, of the looks that Nakia and Okoye are giving each other, and the truth comes crashing down on his head. “Oh my God,” he says, staring at T’Challa in betrayal. 

T’Challa gets up to his feet, watching Erik warily. “Erik--”

“Oakland?” Erik whispers, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “You’re taking me back to Oakland, you _motherfucker_ \--”

“Erik,” T’Challa snaps out, and faster than a whip, he’s grabbing Erik’s arms in a tight grip, forcing him still. “You idiot, I’m not going to strand you in Oakland by yourself. What do you take me for?”

Erik struggles free as he spits out, “Your daddy did it, why shouldn’t you?” But beyond the panic and shock, some part of his brain’s thinking clearly enough to recognize the look on T’Challa’s face--exasperation, determination, but not guilt. 

His heart pounding, Erik demands, “Then what the fuck are you doing, huh?”

“We’re going back to Oakland _for you_ ,” T’Challa says, each word deliberate and clear, staring into Erik’s face. “So you can see your home again--your other home--and so that we can see it with you.”

There’s an odd buzzing noise in Erik’s ears. Not taking his eyes off T’Challa’s face, he slowly sits back down. 

T’Challa takes immediate advantage of the opportunity, sitting next to him. “We had to take this opportunity,” he says, as earnest and as intense as Erik’s ever seen him. More, even. “Who knows when we’d have another chance, when we’d be so close to California as this?”

Erik tries to swallow. “What makes you think I even want to go home again?” he asks, but given the way his voice wavers, playing it cool is no longer an option. 

“You think I don’t see you keeping up with the news from America?” T’Challa asks, his voice a soft whisper. “Or how you play American music when you think no one is around?”

Erik looks down at his now-healed hands and takes a shaky breath when T’Challa reaches out and holds his wrists loosely. 

“You told me once that Wakanda wasn’t perfect,” T’Challa says quietly. “I think--I think you might be right about that, but I can’t know for sure unless I go out and see more of the world. Help me do that, Erik. Help me see what I should.”

“Okay,” Erik says, through a throat that’s suddenly gone dry. “Okay.”

*

Erik spends the rest of the flight to California--to Oakland--in a daze. Okoye takes a break from flying the ship to eye him up and say, quietly, “I would like to point out that I told both of these two they should warn you first.”

Erik looks at her, and asks, dubious, “So you’re really okay with all of us just...running off with the crown prince and taking him off to the US without the king’s permission?”

Okoye pulls a face. “It’s not _okay_ , but I’m not so deluded as to think that had I said no, that would have been the end of it. He was determined to go, and Nakia was just as determined to get him here. Someone might as well come along to make sure they don’t get into worse trouble.”

“Fair enough,” Erik says, still bemused. “So this whole mission was just, what, a setup to get us out here?”

“Not a setup,” Okoye says, nodding at the idols. “But it was an opportunity.” She looks over at Erik again, and asks, lowering her voice so they won’t be overheard, “Are you ready for this?”

“Me?” Erik says. “I’ve lived in Oakland my whole life. This isn’t a big deal.”

Okoye doesn’t look like she believes him at all--which, fair enough, Erik’s lying through his teeth--but she clearly decides not to push it any further and turns her attention back to the controls. Which leaves Erik alone with his thoughts, with the nerves that keep threatening to rise up and overwhelm him. 

T’Challa is dozing in the back, his face serene in sleep, and Erik keeps looking back at him, fingers twitching with the urge to shake his shoulder and just wake him up, demand more answers, more explanations. _Why are you doing this, what does this mean?_

_What other plans do you have that I don’t know anything about yet?_

And behind that is a deep hole of apprehension, of going back to the city of his childhood, the city where his father died, and finding that he doesn’t fit there anymore. That his months in Wakanda have left him too much of an outsider to come back home again.

“You should get some rest,” Okoye says, in what’s a gentle tone for her. “I’ll wake you once we reach our destination.”

Erik already knows he’s not to be able to get any sleep, but he nods and agrees, lying down in one of the cots as he shuts his eyes and waits until they’re in Oakland. Until he’s home again, whatever that means now.

*

By the time morning comes, they’ve safely landed on the roof of a building in the middle of downtown Oakland, ship cloaked so that no one can see it, and Erik’s nerves are so worked up that he’s ready to bite off the head of the first person who looks at him sideways, T’Challa included. 

And so when they’re all eating breakfast in the ship, Erik gives T’Challa a dark look and says, abruptly, “You said you want to see this place, but I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. You want a tour? You wanna go to a museum? It’s the wrong time of year for a Raiders game, the Warriors are crap this year, and I don’t give a shit about baseball.”

T’Challa just lifts his shoulders, seemingly not thrown by Erik’s show of antagonism. “A museum would be fine,” he admits. “But I was thinking perhaps…perhaps we could see where your family is buried.”

Erik turns to ice. “The city cremated my dad after the murder case went cold,” he says, blunt and harsh, and T’Challa winces at that--as do Nakia and Okoye. Wakanda is really not big on cremation, Erik’s found.

But then T’Challa presses on, undeterred. “And your mother?”

“My mom--” He stops and clears his throat, feeling off-balance. “She’s, uh--her grave’s here, yeah.”

T’Challa nods. “Then we should see it,” he says, and then inclines his head in Erik’s direction, adding, “With your permission, of course.”

“Yeah,” Erik says, feeling almost...numb. “All right.”

*

They do in fact start with a museum. Specifically, they start with the AALMO, and the second Erik walks into the place he’s hit with a strange feeling of--dislocation. T’Challa gives him an inquiring look as he pauses in the entryway, and Erik shrugs, not quite looking back at him. “Changed since I was a kid,” he mumbles, and goes forward to get them all visitor passes. 

He’s feeling defensive at first, a part of him unable to look at the modest museum and not compare it to the wonders back in Wakanda, the glittering colors of the capital city, but the tension in his shoulders starts to ease when he realizes how T’Challa--how all three of them, really--are looking around the place with honest curiosity instead of the pity and contempt he was bracing himself for. 

Nakia and Okoye slip off on their own, but T’Challa stops and looks at a display about the Great Migration, and Erik pauses with him, the two of them looking at a map.

Erik tries to bite his tongue on the words, but they somehow spill out anyway. “My mom’s family came up here during the Great Migration, actually. During the ‘50s, I think.”

T’Challa turns towards Erik, genuinely interested--but of course he is, that’s the whole point of this little field trip, isn’t it? “Really? Where from?”

“Mississippi,” Erik says quietly, pointing to it on the map. “Might still have family there, for all I know.”

T’Challa hesitates before asking, “You don’t know?”

Erik shrugs, keeping his expression blank. “Moms died when I was three, and my pops, he--” Erik pauses as the fragmented memories of his childhood come back to him. “He always got sad when he talked about her, so after a while, I stopped asking questions. It was easier to ask him about Wakanda, about the history of our people, things that made him smile. Things he’d actually talk about.”

Funny how he’d forgotten that part of it until now. 

He pushes past it. “Anyway, after Pops was killed, the state couldn’t find any relatives to take me in, so it was just a round of crappy foster homes, group homes, right up until I aged out of the system and worked my ass off to get to Annapolis. The rest you already know.”

He can feel T’Challa watching him, the weight of those eyes on his face, but he can’t look at him. Instead he nods his head at the rest of the museum, saying briskly, “Come on, man. You said you wanted an education, you’re gonna get one.”

*

The most shocking thing about the morning is how...not-terrible it is. Erik keeps trying to find offense in anything T’Challa does, in his looks or in his mild questions or even in the quiet way he studies the displays, the videos, the artifacts. He keeps trying to bristle, to find that old resentment--but something in T’Challa’s stillness and clear gaze stops him every time. 

It’s hard to be mad at someone, Erik’s finding, when they’re honestly listening to what you’ve got to say. 

They end up eventually meeting with Nakia and Okoye over at the Seed Library in the building. To Erik’s surprise, Okoye is in enthusiastic conversation with one of the librarians, who’s breaking down for her the premise of the program--that anyone, whether they’re an Oakland resident or not, whether they’ve got a library card or not--can get some seeds from the library to plant, and that the library only asks that you bring back some seeds from those next-gen plants to the library to keep it going.

At Erik’s baffled look, Nakia chuckles and explains, “Okoye’s studies centered on botany and agriculture.” 

“So the scary assassin lady has a green thumb,” Erik says. “Okay.”

And sure enough when they finally leave, Okoye has some seed packets carefully tucked away, and when Erik asks her if she’s really planning on bringing more seeds back, Okoye just glares at him and says, “Of course I am, what do you take me for?”

“Fair enough,” Erik says, chuckling to himself. 

His laughter fades as they exit the building, afternoon sunlight nearly blinding for a second--and he remembers where they are, and where they’re supposed to go next. 

Some of his hesitation must be on his face, as T’Challa gives him an openly worried look and says, in his gentle way, “Erik, we don’t need to--”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Erik says over him. “We should get going. We don’t want to get caught in traffic.”

He slips into the backseat of the Lexus and looks straight ahead as Nakia starts the car--he’d offered to drive, but he also doesn’t want to run the risk if they get pulled over and he has to pull out his fake ID. Nakia’s sworn up and down that his cover identity will hold while they’re on US soil, but Erik’s still not willing to run the risk of what’ll happen if Uncle Sam catches him now that he’s skipped out on his active duty obligation.

He notices Nakia glancing at him in the rearview mirror, and Erik turns his face away, idly picking at the fabric of his jeans--it’s funny how accustomed he’s already gotten to the clothes he wears in Wakanda, to the point that it feels strange to be wearing jeans and sneakers again. 

Erik can feel himself tensing up as they park near the cemetery, staying silent as they all get out of the car. 

He still doesn’t know what to make of it, what to think of T’Challa’s sudden determination to go to the grave of a woman he’d never met and Erik barely remembers, and it’s not until they actually reach the entrance of the cemetery that Erik has a sudden full-body flashback to walking into this very graveyard years and years ago with his dad, his dad weeping at his mom’s headstone. 

Erik stops dead in his tracks at the gate, dimly hearing T’Challa quietly asking Nakia and Okoye to step back for a moment. Everything feels faintly surreal--the bright sunlight, the headstones in their neat rows, the faint breeze on Erik’s face. 

When T’Challa places a careful hand between his shoulder blades, Erik jumps. “I’m all right,” he insists, but the crease between T’Challa’s eyebrows doesn’t go away. Erik ducks his head, suddenly furious with himself--he doesn’t _need_ this, he doesn’t need to be fucking coddled like a _child_ \--

“Let’s just do this, all right?” he says roughly, and walks forward. 

He hasn’t been here in years, but his feet know where to go. 

His mom's buried near a giant oak tree, and as Erik gets closer, he sees that the grass is overgrown near her marker, thick and wild. Without conscious thought, Erik gets down on his knees, pulling up the grass while staring at the engraving on the modest black stone. 

"Should've brought some flowers," he says quietly to himself. "Pops usually did when he brought me here as a kid."

T'Challa sinks down next to him on the ground, quietly helping him to clear away the rest of the grass. There's a lump in Erik's throat, watching him do this, no pretensions, like it's the most natural thing in the world for a prince to be doing. 

"She was a nurse, I understand?" T'Challa asks gently, and Erik nods. 

"Yeah, ER nurse over at Kaiser,” he says, remembering. “She wore her scrubs all the time...I used to think moms weren’t allowed to wear anything else, like it was their uniform or something.”

The memories are coming back now, his mom coming home from work and cuddling up with him on the couch, her soft hands stroking the back of his head as he curled up against her side and his dad laughed at her work stories. He remembers falling asleep like that, feeling safe and warm, knowing they’d both be there when he woke up. 

Erik’s face is wet. He wipes at his face, his vision blurring, as he tries to steady his breathing and fails. “Why are we here?” he demands, his voice cracking. “Why’d you bring me here, man?”

T’Challa doesn’t speak at first, and then he says, haltingly, “I thought...if you agreed...that we could have your mother buried in Wakanda.”

Erik breathes in and out. “Why.”

T’Challa answers immediately, like he’s been thinking about this for a while and just needed an opportunity to say it all out loud. “Because she is the mother of a prince of Wakanda, and your mother. Because if she could not be honored as such when she was alive--if your father thought he couldn’t bring the two of you to Wakanda--then we should make that right. Even now.”

“No, I mean why are _you_ doing this?” Erik asks, staring at him. “It’s not gonna make you look good back home. Nobody else cares about my mother.” Nobody except Erik. “And this is a lot of effort to make for someone you feel sorry for.”

And that gets a response, T’Challa’s eyes narrowing in anger before he snaps out, “This is not _pity._ Don’t insult yourself or me by saying that.”

“Then what is it?” Erik asks, pushing, demanding. 

T’Challa’s forehead is creasing, as though _Erik_ is the confusing one. Like he can’t get why Erik can’t trust this, can’t rely on it. 

“Because it is right,” T’Challa says slowly. “And it is the least of what you are owed.”

Erik breathes in at that, sharp, and looks away--but there’s nowhere else to look except for his mom’s grave, nothing else to feel but grief, for his mom, for his dad, for the history he’ll never get to know because there is no one left to ask. 

That pit is opening up inside of him again, pitch black and full of pain, and Erik tries to swallow except he can’t, he tries to breathe except he can’t, and his vision’s blurred and the tears keep coming, and the first sob escapes his throat and he can feel himself breaking wide open. 

His throat aching, Erik can barely feel the warmth of T’Challa’s hand on his back again, but then T’Challa is wordlessly, carefully pulling him into an embrace, and Erik tries to resist, he tries not to give into it, except then his face is resting against T’Challa’s shoulder and he’s muffling his sobs into the fabric, shuddering as T’Challa rubs circles into his back, not trying to shush him, not trying to offer him any bullshit platitudes, just--staying there. Bearing witness, bearing the weight until Erik can stand up on his own. 

*

They’ve got a hotel room for the night. Okoye hadn’t been thrilled about it, but Erik doesn’t pay much attention to the planning for what they’re going to do. He feels drained and shaky still, like he’s been wrung dry. He mostly just focuses on his breathing and T’Challa’s hand on his back, like an anchor.

“We’ll stay in one room,” T’Challa decides. “You and Nakia will be in the connecting room--easier to defend that way. Not that I’m expecting any trouble.”

“I’ll stay with the ship, just in case,” Nakia offers. “Okoye will be keeping watch over you two.”

“That works well,” T’Challa agrees, and that settles it. 

Erik’s vaguely aware of the looks they get from the people around them as they check in. He’s not surprised by it; this is one of the nicest hotels in the city, and Erik’s walking in here with grass stains on his jeans and a baggy t-shirt. But it’s all fine, money talks, and before he knows it, they’re in the elevator, Okoye muttering about her wig and how glad she’ll be to take it off. 

Erik leans into T’Challa’s hand that’s still curving around his shoulder and doesn’t say a word until they’re in their hotel room, the door closed safely behind them, the only sound the faint whirring of the fan. 

Still in that strange fog, Erik kicks his shoes off and immediately collapses face-first in the bed--the only bed in the room.

He twists around so he’s lying on his back and looking up at T’Challa, who’s carefully removing his own sneakers and socks, before coming over to sit at the edge of the bed again, looking down at Erik. 

“You should get some rest,” he offers, but Erik shakes his head. 

“I’m all right,” he says. “And besides, we need to talk, don’t we?”

T’Challa pauses and then nods. “Perhaps we do.”

The fog’s finally clearing enough from Erik’s brain that he can say, “So you’re here, you’ve seen Oakland, so now what? We go back to Wakanda, bury my mom, and then it’s more of the same? Everyone keeps on burying their heads in the sand while the rest of the world suffers?”

T’Challa doesn’t speak at first, and Erik’s anger, buried for so long, starts to rise up to the surface again. Everything he’s swallowed, every argument he didn’t make, every word he didn’t say because he wanted to fit in, wanted to feel secure, wanted to not feel like an outsider for five fucking minutes--all of it rises up and spills over. 

“If it hadn’t been for Zuri getting sick and feeling guilty about what he did to me,” Erik says, “you would’ve never known about me at all. You’d be off in Wakanda, living your perfect life, and I’d still be here, left behind. Just like Wakanda’s left everyone else behind for centuries. You say you wanna do right by me and my mom, but you’ll let the rest of the world burn? T’Challa, you--” Erik chokes on the rest of it, but it’s still ringing in his head-- _T’Challa, you’re better than this._

Because it’s true. Erik’s never had faith in anything, but he wants to believe in T’Challa, wants to believe that the man who could meet Erik with an open hand, with all of that generosity and kindness, could look at his country and recognize the hypocrisy in its stance.

So Erik looks T’Challa in the face and says, “You can’t turn your back on the rest of the world, on the billions of people who look just like us that are suffering, and then say your hands are clean. You’ve gotta know that, man.”

His heart’s pounding while he waits for T’Challa’s answer, but still, somehow, he’s not ready for T’Challa to let out a deep breath and reach out and clasp Erik’s wrist as he says, “I know. You’re right, I know.”

All the tension leaves Erik’s body in a rush, so quickly that he’s almost lightheaded. T’Challa’s still looking at him pensively, but his mouth’s quirked up in a half-smile, like he sees how relieved Erik is to hear him actually say it out loud. 

And he is, he’s so fucking relieved, because he’s spent months telling himself that if he ever let loose, if he told T’Challa what he really thought about what Wakanda owed to the rest of their people, what it owed to the billions still caught in a never-ending cycle of oppression, T’Challa would reject it. That for all of his charm and kindness, that T’Challa was just too comfortable--too _soft_ \--to ever choose the harder path.

And to find out he was wrong...

“Well, about fucking time, man, shit,” Erik croaks out, and T’Challa thankfully doesn’t call attention to how shaky his voice sounds as he says it. 

He just smiles and warns him, “We’ll have to start slowly, at first. My father has always stuck to the traditional ways, and the council of elders is much the same. Change won’t come in a day.”

“But we’re doing this,” Erik insists. 

“Yes,” T’Challa agrees again, nodding his head. “We are. This is the right thing to do--the only thing to do.”

His hand is still on Erik’s bare wrist, and his thumb is rubbing circles into him skin, almost absently, like he’s not even thinking about it. As though there’s nothing to him touching Erik like this. 

Erik wants it to be something, though. 

“That the only reason?” he asks at last, his heartbeat starting to speed up as he says it. “You’re about to go home and start upending centuries of tradition, and the only reason you’ve got is because it’s the right thing to do?”

He doesn’t have words for the way T’Challa’s watching him right now, the focus in it. “What other reasons would I have?” he asks at last, his voice pitched low.

Erik’s heart is pounding so loudly he can’t believe T’Challa can’t hear it--and maybe he can, maybe that’s the reason for the way he’s looking at him now. “I think your conscience is bothering you, yeah,” Erik agrees. “But don’t lie--you’re also doing this for me.”

T’Challa licks his lips, and Erik watches him do it, and they both know he’s watching. And still T’Challa tries, “Of course I--”

“No,” Erik says, sitting up, leaning into T’Challa’s space until they’re only inches apart. T’Challa’s watching him with wide eyes, but he’s not pulling away, his hand is still on Erik’s wrist, and Erik’s not letting this rest any longer. “You’re doing this _for me_.”

T’Challa’s mouth parts, and then he admits, so softly Erik could almost miss it, “Yes.”

His entire body thrumming with triumph, Erik leans in and closes the distance between them, kissing him urgently. T’Challa responds immediately, cupping Erik’s face with his hands, slowing the kiss down and running his fingers along the back of Erik’s neck until Erik’s shuddering, his fingers knotted in the front of T’Challa’s shirt. 

Erik’s vaguely aware of sinking back into the mattress, the two of them rocking against each other and groaning, Erik going hot all over when T’Challa’s hands slip underneath his shirt. Dazed, Erik breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his shirt over his head, and he’s rewarded when T’Challa stares down at him in appreciation. 

“Like what you see?” Erik asks breathlessly.

“Obviously,” T’Challa retorts, and kisses him again, his hands roving over Erik’s bare chest, thumbs rubbing over his nipples until Erik’s muffling noises of desperation against his mouth. 

Eventually they have to separate to get the rest of their clothes off, Erik stripping down faster than he ever has in his life, right up until he’s getting rid of his second sock and looks up to see T’Challa methodically stripping down, all lean muscle and gleaming skin, and Erik literally forgets how to move. 

“Fuck,” he says with total sincerity, and T’Challa grins at him over his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he says, and Erik growls and pulls him back in again for another kiss. 

He’s feeling overwhelmed in the best possible sense, everything driven out of his head except for T’Challa and the feel of the skin and the things he’s doing to Erik right now. The things Erik _wants_ to do to him, fuck. And that’s before T’Challa starts moving downwards, his mouth dragging over Erik’s throat, down the center of his chest, as Erik props himself up on his elbows and tries to remember how the fuck to breathe. 

“Oh my God, please,” he groans out as T’Challa nips at the skin right below his navel, hot tongue flickering out to soothe the sting. T’Challa’s eyes flick upwards momentarily, amused and knowing, and Erik goes completely still, even before T’Challa wraps a hand around his dick and starts licking at the head, his eyes shut and his mouth hot and soft and fucking _perfect_. 

Goddamn. Erik has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sight in front of him, otherwise this would be over way too fast. It’s nearly too much as it is, the feel of T’Challa’s mouth around his dick, swallowing him down, one hand wrapped around the base and the other--

Erik jumps a little as T’Challa’s fingers press at the skin right behind his balls, and T’Challa looks up, going still. His heart’s speeding up a little, but Erik spreads his legs a little wider, an invitation. “Go ahead,” he says, just to make it clear, because he’s realizing that he’s ready to give up everything else to T’Challa, he can give this up too. 

It’s not what he expected, getting fucked. T’Challa takes it slow, uses lotion from the drawer as slick to ease the way, and takes his time, stretching Erik out slowly with his fingers until Erik’s got his arm flung across his face, swearing under his breath as he pushes back against T’Challa’s fingers. The stretch and burn of it is dragging the air from his lungs, and that’s before T’Challa finds the spot inside of him that has him gasping, sparks traveling all the way through his body. 

He’s dimly aware that he’s begging, even as T’Challa bends forward to kiss him again, tender and soft, and Erik drags him in even closer, not caring about the awkward angle, not caring about anything about the need to have T’Challa closer, as close as they can get. 

“I need,” T’Challa says, his gorgeous voice cracking at last, and Erik’s already urging him on, saying, “Do it, I want you to, fuck, please--” and then T’Challa is guiding himself in, pushing into Erik in one smooth thrust and the rest of Erik’s words get swallowed up as he’s dragging in gulps of air, breathing through it. 

“All right?” T’Challa asks, breathless, and Erik groans out, “Don’t _stop_ , fuck,” and then T’Challa’s laughing even as he starts to move, starts to thrust in and out, starts to fuck him in earnest and Erik can’t talk after that, all he can do is breathe and claw at T’Challa’s back, moving into it, letting T’Challa take him apart piece by piece until he finally comes, spilling between their bodies as he gasps into T’Challa’s mouth. 

*

When Erik wakes up in the morning, T’Challa’s still there fast asleep in his bed, a faint smile on his face as he sleeps. 

It’s a good sight to wake up to, and the best part is that Erik’s not surprised to see him still there in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://www.oaklandlibrary.org/locations/african-american-museum-library-oakland) is the museum that Erik and the others visit in Oakland.


End file.
